He Loves Her More

By Elizabeth Major on September 25, 2014 in Other

I finally realised that the thing about dating a surfer is that I will always come second. It doesn’t matter how hot my rig, how tasty my tacos or how charming my conversation, I am merely the pitiful mistress in comparison to his one true love, the ocean. And to that woman of his dreams he will continue to return, a slave to her moods until death do they part. From the first time I ever watched my man out there I realised the undeniable truth that he made more sense on the water than he ever would on land.

It seems as though the two of us are interchangeable. Whether he is in her embrace or mine, wrapped in the glorious arms of a thick wall of water or being spooned by me, he is in a state of pure joy. The problem is that it never lasts. He will always leave my arms to return to hers. The warmth of my bed is nothing to the biting cold of her belly. The only reason I get him back at all is that she often gets sick of him and either kicks him out or turns away from him, denying her curves and giving only the flatness of her back. Finally he returns, his beard smelling of her salty kiss, dripping with her wetness.

In the strange methodology of surfers’ logic, she also takes precedence in every practical way. For example, when we pack for a trip (probably to Indonesia) it is not unreasonable to be paying an excess baggage fee for the quiver, but I better take out that second pair of shoes before he notices. I am by no means a princess, but I know to travel light because I will invariably end up carrying more than my share when he has to run off to get the boards.

Of course, if I spend a bit of money on my hair ($70), clothes ($100) and maybe a new lipstick ($30), I am being outrageously extravagant, but if she breaks his new board clean in half, he wastes no time in spending just under a grand in replacing it with a newer, shinier, absolutely ‘necessary’ board. Never mind the three that take up so much space in the hallway that I have to walk sideways to get through the bedroom door, or the two that lie across the sofa, or the wet one that he has just rested on top of the clean laundry…

I tried dating a non-surfer once, but it didn’t work out. He was okay, but he was way too clean and he owned too many pairs of shoes. Replace the quiver with the photography equipment and suddenly I was being dragged around Vietnam while he took time-lapse shots of traffic. I prefer the beach; I am an inept but enthusiastic bodyboarder and I like to leave my hair salty for days, so in the end I find once again myself with someone of my own kind.

I’ll take the smell of wax over the smell of cologne any day, and I would rather be on a deserted island in the Mentawais than in a polished hotel where I might be expected to wear shoes. The ocean can take him for most of the day. I don’t mind sharing with her, because the truth is, she has her hooks in me as well.